The Summer Path
by the Harechan
Summary: The crossraods were snowy. One path would lead to peaceful rest, the other to the turmoil he lived before. When faced with the choice, which will the rurouni choose?


Ahhh . . . the Hare-chan was watching the last DVD in the _Legends of Kyoto_ Arc with Akiko and someone made the comment that he looked very, _very_ dead (and hey! You gotta admit he did.). So I wondered, "When Kenshin was unconsious, whatever convinced him to wake up? Especially since later, he didn't what to?" This little piece is the result. Hope you like.   
  


**The Summer Path   
by the Hare-chan**

  
The snow whispered softly to him, falling quietly about him. The smell of pines filled the air. The icy flakes landed gently on his exposed skin, melting quickly against the warmth of his body. He opened his eyes to watch them drift from the heavens. It was so . . . peaceful.   
  
Regardless of the snow, he didn't feel the cold, laying spread out in it as he was. His mind registered distantly that he should. It didn't matter; it was warm, calm. And wasn't he fighting . . . someone . . . in a place surrounded by flames? Who was that person? A man or was it a woman? Was that why his clothing was torn? He couldn't remember. Why was there snow anyway? It was warmer before. Spring maybe? But, it didn't matter. It was peaceful. He closed his eyes. Rest was all he needed now.   
  
The sound of soft footfalls broke his hushed sanctuary. Someone was approaching? Why couldn't he be alone in whatever place his was? He wanted to be _alone_. To _rest_. He deserved it, right?   
  
He _deserved_ a rest. He had done . . . something. Something big. Something tiring and. he had fought. He had fought . . . in a . . . _war_! That's right! He changed something by fighting for it. Except, even after that change he had to continue fighting for it or . . . maybe he did something else?   
  
The footsteps stopped beside him. Whoever, or whatever, it was knelt down beside him. The scent of white plums filled the air, drowning out the evergreens. They touched his bare shoulder very lightly, shaking it slightly. They wanted him to get up? _No_. he wanted to rest, to sleep, to not open his eyes.   
  
"Anata?" A calm feminine voice whispered in the restored silence. He stubbornly kept his eyes shut. He would not open them. He wanted to do something he wanted. Hadn't he already given enough of himself?   
  
"Anata?" A more forceful shake of his shoulder. "Will you please open your eyes? I wish to speak to you." Why was her voice so familiar?   
  
"Why?" He croaked out his reply. Couldn't he just rest?   
  
"Because it is important that we speak," was her soft reply.   
  
He sighed. Sitting up slowly - why was he so sore? Was he injured? - he did her bidding. He opened his eyes to meet dark, seemingly bottomless ones set in a china doll face. He _knew_ her. She was . . . "I _know_ you . . ."   
  
"Yes, anata, you know me," a Mona Lisa smile graced her lips. He _knew_ those lips were soft, but how did he know _that_? "Now, do you know where you are?"   
  
He looked about and found they sat at a crossroads. Before him, the pines grew thicker and the undergrowth lay bare. The clouds grew darker, but the snow that fell was just as gentle has where they rested. Behind him, the pines gave way to young leafy foliage with blossoming flowers scattered across the ground, the snow to sunny skies.   
  
The road crossing it was different, yet the same. To his left, lay an overgrown path with dying leaves fluttering to the already covered ground, gloomy and misty. To his right, the trees laced their full branches over the path, filling it with green-tinted light.   
  
"We're at a crossroads?" He answered. How had he come to this place? He didn't remember, but maybe she knew?   
  
"That would be correct," she nodded, gesturing to their surroundings. "And you have a choice."   
  
"I do?" He gave a quick glance to their surroundings.   
  
"Yes," another quick nod. "Because you continually and selflessly gave of yourself for your country, you receive a choice at this point."   
  
"I get this choice?"   
  
"Yes, that would be correct," her reply was patient. "However, you must understand, once you have made your decision, it cannot be changed. It is permanent."   
  
"I understand. What are my choices?"   
  
"Life or Death."   
  
"_What!?_"   
  
"Life or Death."   
  
Life or death? What kind of a choice was _that_? Why were _those_ his choices? What had her done to warrant such a thing? What had he done . . . Maybe she knew? "Do you know why that is my choice?"   
  
The Mona Lisa smile returned. "You know that already."   
  
"I do?"   
  
"Yes, Shinta."   
  
His eyes widened at the sound of that name. That name. It was his name, but he hadn't been "Shinta" in sometime. The floodgates of memories let loose a torrent in his mind.   
  
_

*   
  
He stood on a dark street, rain falling mercilessly about him. He charged drawing his blade, killing the first man before he could do the same. The second fell soon after. The third was more persistent, but he died like the others. He cleaned his soiled katana before fading back into the night. In the morning, Kyoto was alive with more rumors of the Hitokiri Battousai . . .   
  
*   
  
The sun pounded on his back, warming it as he tended to the tiny plants before him. The moist ground squished between his fingers. He wiped his hands on his hakama and stretched his cramped back. Thunder rumbled in the distance, threatening more rain. He set back to work, quickening his pace in order to salvage what he could from the already muddy garden.   
  
*   
  
The night was still, calm. The opposite of the two men that faced one another outside the small shrine. He stepped back, sheathing his sword, dropping into the familiar stance his shishou taught him long ago. He readied himself, hand hovering over the concealed blade.   
  
His opponent attacked. He drew his blade with the speed of the gods, regardless of the knowledge that the attack would not be fast enough with the blade he carried. His foe dodged slightly; he brought his sheath up, breaking the man's arm. Let it never be said that Himura Kenshin was not a master of the battoujitsu.   
  
*   
  
The young boy standing defiant before the men that "owned" him, desperately clinging to his samurai pride . . .   
  
*   
  
The fighter before him leaning upon a sword large enough to take a horse and its rider, smirking at his smaller challenger . . .   
  
*   
  
The doctor tending to the sick, atoning for the wrongs she was forced to commit . . .   
  
*   
  
The men sacrificing themselves before a gattling gun to protect their leader. . .   
  
*   
  
The lost soul determined to claim the title of strongest for his fallen comrades . . .   
  
*   
  
The warrior unwavering against a demon for the sake of his fiancé . . .   
  
*   
  
The wolf in a man's guise parrying his sword blow in a darkened practice hall . . .   
  
*   
  
A boy with bloody hands and a smiling face reciting a mantra about the strong and weak . . .   
  
*   
  
A bandaged man with the fires of Hell in his eyes and on his life-stained blade mocking his weakness . . .   
  
*   
  
A girl weeping softly in the dark street as he walks resolutely away for her . . .   
  
*   
  
****

_. . . kenshin . . . _   
  
*   
  
A woman laying in his arms, her life ebbing away between his fingers . . .   
  
*   
  
****_. . . anata . . .   
  
*   
"Tomoe?" He gazed at the woman in surprise. Why hadn't he seen it before? Tears welled up, blurring his vision. "Am I dead?"   
  
"No, Shinta, you are not dead," her expression grew sorrowful, "But if you linger much longer it will be so."   
  
He met her sad eyes, reaching out and touching her cheek tenderly. He wanted to stay. It would be blissful to stay with her in this peaceful place. But . . . "The work I started ten years ago is not finished." He leaned into her, resting his head on his shoulder. Her arms encircled his weary body. Breathing in her scent, he relaxed in the soothing embrace. "I'm sorry, koichii. I _must_ go back," he pulled away from her, bowing his head, refusing to meet her gaze again. "Which path do I take to return?" He asked softly.   
  
She took hold of his chin, lifting his face, and graced with a true smile. "I knew your choice would be the correct one, Shinta. To return," she extended her arm gracefully in the direction of the summer road; he followed her movement with his eyes, "take this path."   
  
He rose, assisting her to her feet. "Will you forgive me, Tomoe?" He bowed his head again.   
  
"Hai," she caressed his scarred cheek. "Again and again. Do not be afraid. I will wait for you, my second love."   
  
He nodded, smiling tenderly, and broke away from her, heading down the indicated path. A warmth spread through him as he stepped onto the summery path. He turned to look back once, finding the crossroads empty. "Goodbye for now, Tomoe, and thank you." With his whispered farewell, he headed back down the path.   
  


*

  
Those gathered on the rooftop watched amazed. Kenshin rose to his feet, his drawn blade still grasped loosely in his tried hands. The gentle spring breeze strengthened to a gale, answering his silent call. His grip tightened, his slight frame tensing, his voice rising to the air as a bellow. And as he cried out, the summer leaves began to fall.   
  


**::fin::**

  
  
Yes, I know. I should be working on _What If . . . ?_ and if you're reading it, I apologize. ^_^;; I kinda got sidetracked by this and a song set to _My Immortal_ by Evanescence. ^_^;; Sorry. It should be out next week . . . I hope. And if you're not reading it . . . well, why not?   
  
Anyway, you went to all the trouble to read this, you might as well review, right? ^_^   
  



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